


The Language of Roses

by sunwing



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1242211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunwing/pseuds/sunwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A single book can change your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language of Roses

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the very patient potentiality_26, who wanted a Christmas story.

Artemus held the door for the elderly hotel manager, who’d insisted on carrying their suitcases upstairs. “Set them down anywhere,” he said, glancing around the room. It was plain but clean. The fireplace had been swept, and the wood box filled.

It would do just fine, he thought, and turned away so the old man wouldn’t see him blush.

The manager set the cases beside the bed. “I’m afraid this is the best I can offer you. From the look of you gentlemen, I’d say you’re used to fancier accommodations.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jim said, pushing an armload of packages onto the bureau. “This will do just fine, Mr. Barrett.”

Artemus wished he hadn’t said that, and looked out the window, letting the frosty glass cool his cheeks.

“Shall I light the fire?” Mr. Barrett asked.

“I’ll do it,” Jim said. “Is there a good restaurant in town?”

“Right next door, as a matter of fact. It’s no grander than this, but the food is good.” He passed over two keys. “The heavy one is for the front door. I’m going to my sister’s for Christmas, so you’ll have the place to yourselves.”

Jim raised a brow. “A bit trusting, aren’t you?”

“Your friend showed me his identification when he registered. I hope I can trust the Secret Service.” The old man shrugged. “There are three buckets of clean water in the corner, if you want to heat some for a wash, and you can have the run of the kitchen. I’ll be back tomorrow night. So, if there’s nothing else you need…”

“Nothing at all,” Jim said. “Goodnight, Mr. Barrett. And Merry Christmas.”

His polite smile faded as the door closed. “I’m sorry, Artie.”

“For what?”

“This. I wanted someplace better for you.”

“It’s okay, Jim. It’s not your fault we had an engine malfunction. You didn’t plan to strand us in The-Middle-of-Nowhere, Nebraska. Wait a minute, what _is_ this town called?”

“Crossbow. And if I’d planned to strand us I’d have chosen someplace romantic, like New Orleans.”

“Jim, I told you—“

“I know, you don’t expect to be romanced.”

Artemus laughed softly. “It’s a little late to worry about that now.”

Jim raised a brow. “I’ve been overdoing it, haven’t I?”

“You’re doing just fine,” Artemus said, and mentally slapped himself. “What’s in the boxes?”

“Christmas presents.”

“I don’t have much for you, James.”

“Yes, you do.” Artie waited for Jim to tease him about the blush. He didn’t. “Would dinner be good now?”

“It would be perfect.”

Artie locked the door behind them. It was a nice enough room. They’d both been in worse. It was as good a place as any to spend Christmas Eve.

And it would do just fine for their wedding night.

 

                                                                           ***

 

It had taken him a while to place the exact moment when he’d known he was being courted. It wasn’t when James had started giving him small gifts; or during their first quiet stroll in the moonlight, which even then he’d somehow known wasn’t just to walk off a rich meal.

Not when he realized that Jim hadn’t gone looking for female companionship for an unusually long time. Not even when Jim had given him the first rose.

Artemus remembered that day very well--he’d caught Jim making a delicate origami crane from silver paper. “Jim, that’s beautiful. Why didn’t you tell me you could do that?”

“I figured you’d think it was silly.”

“Not at all. Where did you learn to do it?”

“San Francisco, a few years back. A Japanese woman taught me, one rainy day.”

Artie noted the slight smile Jim didn’t seem to know he was wearing. “Was she pretty?”

“Beautiful. It was her eightieth birthday. She did origami to keep her fingers nimble.” He held out the finished bird. “Would you like to have this?”

“Yes, thank you. What else can you make?” Jim opened the box of paper on his desk and sorted through a dozen colors, finally choosing a sheet of dark blue tissue. Minutes later he reached up and tucked a blue rose in Artie’s lapel. Artie laughed softly with delight. “Do you have any other hidden talents?”

“Many. But this is my only artistic skill.”

“She must have been quite a teacher.”

“She was. She reminded me of my mother. Very focussed, very calm.”

Artemus could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Jim had mentioned Genevieve West. “You don’t talk about her much,” he prompted gently.

“She died when I was young.” Jim brushed a fingertip over Artie’s boutonniere. “Making this must have made me sentimental. Roses were her passion. She knew everything about them.”

“Everything?”

“She wrote the book, as they say. She taught me everything from planting and grafting to their exact meanings.”

Artie looked sceptical. “Roses have meanings?”

“A different one for every color.”

“What’s the meaning of a blue rose?”

He remembered how Jim had laughed the question off. “There’s no such thing, so it doesn’t have one.”

The exact moment Artemus knew he was being courted came a month later, when he discovered that Genevieve West really had written the book--and that her son, the man who didn’t lie, had told him a whopper.

 

                                                                              ***  

 

He ordered a bowl of beef-barley soup instead of the pork chops he wanted, and barely sipped at his wine.

“Not hungry?” Jim asked.

“A little, but...” He gestured vaguely. “I’m not as young as I used to be. There are some things…”

“You can’t do on a full stomach anymore?”

“Let’s just say I shouldn’t.” He grinned back at his partner. “I know you don’t expect miracles, but it would be nice if I could stay awake, right?”

“Right.”

The waiter asked, “Would you like dessert?”

Artie shook his head. Jim said, “Just coffee, please.” When the waiter had gone, he said, “Artie, are you sure you don’t want more time to think about this?”

He said, “I _have_ been thinking about it,” and held Jim’s gaze as the waiter poured their coffee and left again. “And I believe we’re going to be very good together.”

He was pleased to see Jim’s cup rattle on the saucer.  

Jim said, “Shall we go then?”

“No, there’s something I want to do first. I’ll meet you at the hotel in an hour.”

Out on the street he took a moment to enjoy the sight of his partner walking away, then turned and headed for the train.

 

                                                                           ***

 

Luke Hardiman’s used-book store was one of Artie’s favourite haunts in Chicago. Luke’s love of words actually rivalled his own. More than once he’d been heard to say, “A single book can change your life.”

Since he’d found his first copy of _Hamlet_ on his first visit there, Artie was inclined to agree.

His last visit had hammered the point home.

He’d paid for his books and was rummaging through a box of new deliveries while Luke made change. The surprised grunt he couldn’t stop himself from making made Luke look up.

“Artemus, are you all right?”

“Sorry, yes. Where did you get this?”

He held up _The Language of Roses,_ by Genevieve West. The cover showed a single red rose, accented with fine lines of gold.

“Those books were brought in this morning. A man cleaned out his father’s attic and had no use for them. Do you want that one?” Artemus brought out his wallet. Luke held up a hand to stop him. “It’s a gift,” he said. “I wish you could have seen the look on your face when you saw it. Please take it. Perhaps it will change your life.”

“Perhaps,” Artemus murmured. “Thank you, Luke.”

But back at the train, reading the book in his room, he knew there was no _perhaps_ about it. He leafed through the pages slowly, charmed by the watercolor illustrations. There were seven origami roses lined up on his shelf now, and James had dodged the question every time Artie had asked about their meanings.

Finally Artie had asked, “Is it possible you were teasing me about roses *having* meanings?”

“Maybe.”

“Or that you don’t know them after all?”

“That’s possible, too.”

But it wasn’t. Looking through the book, remembering how carefully Jim had chosen the colours for his flowers, Artie knew his partner had known exactly what he was doing--he just hadn’t been able to say the words out loud. Artie understood: being an actor, he knew the most interesting parts of any conversation were the things that went unsaid.

He looked up the roses’ meanings in the order they were lined up.

Red: _Respect, courage, passionate love._ Artie closed his eyes for a long moment, and whispered, “Ah, James.”

White: _Innocence, purity, secrecy._ Artemus considered that, then nodded to himself. He knew the theory of love between men, if not its practice. In that way, at least, he was innocent. It didn’t matter to him that Jim had known that. It did matter that he’d cared.

Pink: _Happiness, romance, sweetness._ Well, no one else had ever given him roses offstage.

Peach: _Gratitude, appreciation, sincerity._ Artemus felt himself smile. His partner had a way with words, even when he didn’t give them voice.

Orange: _Pride, enthusiasm, desire._

He turned the page. _The blue rose is a figment of the imagination, yet has a powerful meaning. It symbolizes someone you believe unattainable, yet find fascinating and uniquely beautiful. The blue rose represents your heart’s desire._

Artie wiped away sudden tears. Jim loved him. Jim loved him like *that.* So many times he’d called him _my dear James_ and not realized he really *was* his.

The last rose Jim had given him was yellow. _Friendship, caring, joy._ Artie sighed softly. It was good to know that hadn’t changed, at least.

“Artie?” He slid a notepad over the book as Jim came to the door. “What are you doing?”

“Working on a translation.”

“Making any headway?”

“I think I know what most of it means.”

“Don’t work too late, all right? Your eyes are getting red.”

“Don’t worry, Jim, I’ll get some sleep.” But he didn’t get much, and not until dawn. He looked at the blue rose. It was a funny, whimsical thing. A silent object that spoke volumes.

Jim loved him.

He didn’t know what he’d say when the subject came up, only that it would, eventually. If Artie had learned anything from Shakespeare it was that sooner or later all the secrets came out. And that deep love didn’t take rejection well.

He thought Jim might leave if he refused him.

He didn’t want to think about his life without Jim in it.

But…why *would* he refuse? True, Jim drove him crazy sometimes. He could be stubborn, short-tempered, and occasionally arrogant. But Artie knew the saying, “ _You don’t love someone because they’re perfect, you love them in spite of the fact that they’re not.”_

He also knew the one about people who live in glass houses. Jim knew his partner’s faults better than anyone, and still wanted him.  

Perhaps it was the wanting that troubled him, he thought. He’d never been attracted to men. He knew Jim was classically handsome, of course—Jim wasn’t shy and Artie wasn’t blind—but he’d never thought about it. Shouldn’t it bother him that Jim wanted to make love to him?

He waited. It didn’t.

He’d shared Jim’s sleeping bag when the nights were cold. He’d enjoyed the warmth, and taken comfort from their closeness. He’d felt Jim’s hands on him more than once, soothing, healing, giving him strength. He’d never shied away from Jim’s hands before, and didn’t think he would if they moved to give him pleasure.

So what was giving him pause? They knew each other well; their friendship was built on trust. That knowledge would serve them well if they became lovers.

Not if, Artie thought--*when* they did. He might not have thought about taking James as a lover before, but it would be foolish to reject a suitor who held him in such high regard, found him uniquely desirable, and was willing to take a bullet for him. No, settling for Jim wouldn’t be settling at all. And their partnership had yielded satisfying results so far, hadn’t it? Surely their pleasure in working together could extend to the bedroom.

Or not. Artie frowned. He’d never pleasured a man before, and the last thing he wanted was to disappoint Jim.

Then he thought of the white rose. Jim already knew he was inexperienced, and it didn’t matter. Or—maybe it did. Perhaps Jim would enjoy teaching him what men did.

Artie was willing to learn.

Finally calm, he slept. Later, when Jim woke him for breakfast and saw _The Language of Roses_ on his night stand, Artie watched understanding dawn on his face, and grabbed his wrist before he could leave.

Jim said, “Artemus, let me go.”

Artie said, “No, James, I don’t believe I will.”

 

                                                                             ***

 

He lit a fire in his lab and put the kettle on, then went to check on Jim’s Christmas present. The long-stemmed rose had been white when he’d bought it; a few cuts in the stem and some India ink in the vase had turned it a rich, exotic, black. He packed it in a narrow box, and set a small jewel case in beside it.

When the water was hot he washed and shaved. A pleasant nervousness tickled down his spine, almost like stage fright. Except, he thought, the only one who’d see his performance tonight was James.

On the way out, stopping to put a small bottle in his coat pocket, he glanced back to where he and Jim had eaten breakfast on the morning of the revelation. They’d put ham and eggs, coffee and toast, and all their cards on the table.

Jim said, “I couldn’t just come out and tell you I’d fallen in love with you. I didn’t know how you’d take it. I was afraid you’d leave.”

“I don’t think I would have, Jim. But it would have taken me a while to sort out my feelings on the matter.” Impulsively, he covered Jim’s hand with his own. “Well, maybe not that long.” He smiled into his coffee. “All those roses—what were you thinking?”

Jim grinned. “You know exactly what I was thinking.”

“You didn’t count on me finding out about your mother’s book, did you?”

“There were only a few hundred copies ever printed, and for all I knew I had the last one.”  

“My friend Luke said it might change my life.”

“Has it?”

“I don’t think it was the book that did that, James.” He watched curiously as Jim pulled a small fold of blue tissue from his pocket and passed it across the table. “What’s this?”

“I bought it a while back. I knew that someday I wouldn’t be able to keep my feelings hidden anymore. I wanted to be ready if you said yes.”

The ring was made of heavy gold, set with a dark ruby. It was a lovely thing, and expensive by the look of it. Artie started to try it on.

“Don’t.” He looked up, startled. “It’s a wedding ring. Don’t put it on until you’re ready to be my husband.”

“Jim, I’ve already told you—“

“There’s a difference between willing and ready, Artie.”

“Oh. About that, Jim. I don’t know what…I’ve never…”

“I know. Do you want some instruction?”

Artie looked away. “Please.”

“Look at me, Artie. *Look* at me. It’s only natural to be nervous the first time. I understand. You’re afraid I’ll do obscene things to your body and terrible things to your heart. But you’re wrong.” Jim walked around the table, placed a gentle hand on his cheek, and said, “I will be very, very careful with your heart.”

Artie felt his eyes widen as Jim told him in graphic, merciless, detail exactly what he wanted. “And when I’m done, I’ll want you to do that to me.”

Jim cut off Artie’s soft whimper with a kiss. It wasn’t hard and possessive as Artie had expected, but slow and sweet and long. He whimpered again when it ended.

“But not today,” Jim said. “Nothing will happen until you say. I’ll wait as long as you want.” He ran his thumb over Artie’s lips, and kissed them again, briefly. “You’re worth waiting for, Artemus Gordon. Take all the time you need.”

 

                                                                        ***

 

It was snowing when he left the train, and the wind was picking up. He’d be thoroughly chilled by the time he got to the hotel. But it was all right, he thought—the bed would be warm, and James would be warmer.

All the time he’d needed hadn’t been that long. Part of his uncertainty, he knew, had been the fear that James would be impatient with him; that their love-making would be both painful and humiliating. Artie had been waiting to shy at the first sudden movement. But there hadn’t been one. James had kept his word.

Not that he’d kept his distance. At odd moments his fingers had run through Artie’s hair, caressed his cheek, trailed down the side of his neck. He’d kissed Artie’s lips, his forehead, his hands. It seemed as if Jim was always reaching out for him.

Finally Artie said, “James, what are you doing?”

“Kissing you.”

“I got that part. Why?”

“Uniquely beautiful, remember? And so delicious.”

“You said you’d wait.”

Jim stepped back immediately. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry, Artie. I won’t touch you anymore.”

“Jim…” But he was already alone in the room. After a week of having him move out of the way when he saw Artie coming, Artie said, “I’m sorry, Jim. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, either.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“It’s a big step. It’s normal to have a few doubts.”

“Jim, just so you know, none of the doubts are about you. And…”

“What?”

“I’m starting to wish Loveless would shoot me so you’d have to touch me again.”

The laughter felt even better than the hug. That night he found a new rose on his pillow.

Lavender: deep adoration.

It was enough, and Artie let himself surrender at last. He *didn’t* doubt Jim. After his slow, thoughtful wooing, Artie no longer worried about impatience. The man who’d promised him respect and tenderness wouldn’t let him be humiliated. If there was pain, he had no doubt there would also be pleasure. The roses said everything he needed to know.

But they weren’t much company. It was late, and he didn’t want to wake Jim, but he still wished he could settle down to sleep in the arms of the man he loved.

Artie opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. Love? In this whole sweet chaos it was the first time he’d even thought that word. He thought about it now, and flinched.

He hadn’t noticed he was falling in love with his partner because he was too busy worrying about his own pride.

He thought about the roses. Jim’s pride had been on the line, too, but he’d still tried to say what was in his heart--and at that moment Artie couldn’t imagine why he’d wanted to say it to *him.* Jim couldn’t have been sure of Artie’s love, if Artie hadn’t been sure himself. He’d been thinking about accepting Jim’s love, not returning it. He’d never reached out to Jim first; he’d never given him a gift.

Well, it was high time he did. He knew exactly what Jim wanted, and if he’d learned anything else from Shakespeare it was that a fool didn’t have to remain a fool.

The next morning he came to breakfast wearing the ring. “James, I love you.”

“I love you, t-- What did you say?”

“You can stop romancing me now.”

 

                                                                            ***

 

 

The front door of the hotel opened as he approached. Jim pulled him inside. “Artie, you must be freezing.” He secured the locks, and turned to find himself trapped against the door.

“Artie, what are you doing?”

“Kissing you.”

“I got that part. Why?”

“Because you’re uniquely beautiful, James. And so delicious.”

They were both breathless and trembling when they pulled apart. Jim said, “I don’t know if I can walk upstairs like this.”

“I don’t want to make love down here, James.”

“What the hell, I’ll crawl.” He ran his fingers down Artie’s cheek, and smiled widely. “You shaved and changed your shirt. Got yourself all spruced up.”

“It’s a special occasion, isn’t it?”

“It will be.”

Artie walked upstairs first, smiling to himself. He was sure Jim was enjoying the view--he didn’t usually breathe that hard from climbing one flight of stairs.

“Oh.”

The room was filled with golden light--flames crackling high in the fireplace, dozens of candles flickering in glass holders. Every flat surface was heaped with origami roses, each one a promise. A bottle of champagne sat in a basin full of snow.

“Too much?” Jim asked.

“No.” Jim didn’t seem to mind being kissed, so Artie did it again.

Jim asked, “Shall I open the champagne?”

“Please.” Artie took his glass with one hand and passed over the gift box with the other. “Merry Christmas, Jim.”

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to.” Artie sipped his wine as Jim took out the black rose, passing his fingers lightly over the petals and down the stem. They paused over the cuts.

“You made this for me.” It wasn’t a question.                                                                              

“The instructions were in the book.”

“I know. It means—“

“A new beginning,” Artie said. He held his breath as Jim opened the jewel case. The ring was set with a sapphire the colour of the blue rose. “I wanted a stone to match your eyes,” he said.

The eyes in question were suspiciously bright. “Artie, you don’t have to romance me, either.”

“Forget I ever said that, okay?” He slid the ring onto Jim’s finger. Jim’s hand closed around his.

“Thanks, Artie.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

Jim took Artie’s coat. There was a soft *clink* as he hung it on the door hook. He reached in the pocket and grinned. “Massage oil? You want me to give you a back rub?”

“No, I want to give you one. To get used to…touching you.”

They both glanced at the bed. Jim said, “I never know how to get past this moment.” He poured two more glasses of champagne and set them on the night stand. “Why don’t we take these to bed with us?”

They were graceless and gentle as they undressed each other. Jim asked, “Do you want me to blow out the candles?”

“Please don’t. I want to see you.” The answering moan made him shiver.  

Jim held the covers back so Artie could climb into bed first, then slid in beside him. He plumped the pillows up against the headboard, then passed Artie his champagne and held out his arm. Artie rested his head on Jim’s shoulder without hesitation.

They sipped their wine in silence. Artie hadn’t expected these first few moments to be so peaceful--candlelight glowing on his partner’s skin, the blankets warm while snow piled against the window like tattered lace. The room full of winter roses. The hard body pressed against his, protecting him, awaiting his command.

“This is so much better than New Orleans,” he said. He sat up and rolled, straddling Jim’s legs. He took Jim’s glass, drained it, and set it on the night stand with his own. “Come here.”

The kiss wasn’t peaceful for long. Delicate touches became possessive. Murmured endearments became beautiful blasphemies. Artie’s curse when the church bells rang midnight was just one more. He shook his head to clear it.

“Those are *Christmas* bells.”

Jim looked around, confused. “What did you think they were?”

“I thought you were a great kisser.”

Their laughter felt almost as good as the next caress. Artie opened the bottle of oil. “Lean forward.”

Jim wrapped his arms around Artie’s waist. “Like this?”

Their hard cocks brushed together. Artie said, “Exactly like that.”

His hands made warm circles over Jim’s back. Jim’s hands squeezed his ass. Artie thought about the things he wanted to do to Jim. The things Jim would *let* him do. The other things they could do with the massage oil, and probably would before the night was through.

Jim reached up for another kiss, and the greed on his face made Artie groan. He imagined Jim spread beneath him, gently bruised and begging for him, and sobbed, “James, I’m not going to last long.” He guided one of Jim’s hands to his cock. Jim’s fingers wrapped around it as if he’d done it in his mind a thousand times.

“Neither am I.” Artie took his lover’s cock in an oily fist.   

Jim came first, pressing his mouth against Artie’s chest to muffle his cries. Artie came seconds later as Jim shuddered in his arms.  

After a while the room stopped spinning. “Artie, you still with me?”

“Barely,” he murmured. “All that just from holding you. We hardly did anything.”

“It felt like something to me.”

Artie sighed. “It wasn’t what you said you wanted.”

“Look at me, Artie. *Look* at me. We’ll get to that. And to what you want, too. This is just the beginning, remember?” Artie quivered. “Are you cold?”

Artie watched him move, lithe and naked, to feed the fire and soak a towel in one of the buckets. He cleaned them both quickly. Artie reached for him as he came back to bed.

“More?” he whispered.

Jim said, “Soon.” His hands wandered, exploring. “Artie? I love the black rose. And I lo--”

Artie stole his breath and the rest of the sentence.

And so again, an act of worship; and Christmas was as it should be, a gift.


End file.
